


just like old times

by KnifingGale



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Bell whump, Blood, Blood and Violence, Degradation, F/M, Female Bell (Call of Duty), Forced Attempted Vomiting, I swear there's context y'all, Minor Character Death, Neck Holding, Peaches - Freeform, Post-Solovetsky AU where Bell still lives and works with Adler and his team, Sensitive Scars, Strangulation, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation, Whump, and most of the symptoms one gets from it, i honestly don't know how to tag this fic exactly, kind of, nerve agent, nerve agent inhalation, not nsfw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnifingGale/pseuds/KnifingGale
Summary: As you looked up at the blurry black figure standing before you, you realized the blur in your vision weretears.Suddenly, the hooded figure reached out a large gloved hand, grasping at your neck. Against your thoughts, you nearly sighed in relief at the sensation of cold leather against heated skin. At least you did until you felt gloved fingers suddenly press down and stroke over that scar. A strangled noise left your throat instinctively.It was only when you heard through your panting the sound of laughter that you realized that you hadwhimperedfrom the sensation.A single scarred, opaque eye stared down at you.“Nothing but a traitorous dog.”
Relationships: Vikhor "Stitch" Kuzmin/Bell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

_Peaches._

That was all you could think about as you smelled the fragrance wafting through the air of the narrow halls of the construction site. It was a heavy set one as if someone had suddenly doused the hallway in peach perfume. The pleasant fragrance was making your mouth water-

Yet as you took several more steps into the hall with your XM4 ready, you noticed one thing that made your blood run cold. 

The vents were closed. 

_Shit_ , you thought, fumbling with the gas mask attached at your waist. You had been briefed on the likely hazards and weaponry used by the Perseus operatives in the operation. 

Nerve agents were a probable, high-level threat. 

Yet as you brought the gas mask up to your face to secure it, horror dawned on you. 

“Well, shit.” you cursed out loud, almost regretting using up the air you had in your lungs. The gas mask had been shot several times to the point of uselessness. The glass of one eye hole was shattered with another bullet hole in the mask. It must have gotten shot in the crossfire during the initial encounter with Perseus scouts when first breaching the Pines Mall. 

All you could register was the sickeningly sweet smell of peaches as you ran towards the door. Your vision narrowing until all you could see was the single-frame door waiting for you only a few feet away. 

And then you felt your legs buckle. 

_No, no, no-_

You saw stars suddenly flood your vision. Dazed, you stared up from the floor at the door only a few feet away from you. Your legs were numb although occasionally they would be wracked with muscle spasms. 

You panted as you felt heat flash through your body. Pressed against the floor, your chest tightened with your each and every breath as you dragged yourself by your arms. If you could just get to that door-

You winced when the muscles in your arms suddenly spasmed and twitched, forcing you to stop. 

Damn it, you thought, blinking repeatedly from the heated prickling sensation tearing at your eyes. The nerve agent must have already gotten into your system at this point. 

Your thoughts were cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps from behind you. 

There had been a lingering hope in your mind that Adler and the others would have noticed something was wrong, even though your shot to pieces field radio hadn’t communicated that. 

And that hope was shredded to pieces when you heard the sound of a rough accented voice speak briskly from behind you. 

“Nyet, _она моя_.”

“ _Так точно_.” you heard another voice of a soldier briskly answer behind you. And with perfect timing, you happened to wheeze as you felt your chest constrict even more. 

Panicking as you found that really you just couldn’t breathe, you rolled yourself onto your back. Your body wracked as you took one shuddering wheezing breath after another. 

“Look at yourself,” a voice rumbled out amusedly as heavy footsteps grew closer and closer. Panting raggedly, you could only open your eyes half-lidded with the heated prickling sensation tearing at them. The voice was nothing but a large blurry figure standing above you. 

Suddenly, a large gloved hand grasped your combat vest, hauling you by it until you rested on your knees. You felt more like a ragdoll than anything else. You could barely even see much less move a muscle aside from the occasional involuntary spasm. 

As you looked up at the blurry black figure standing before you, you realized the blur in your vision were tears. 

Suddenly, the hooded figure reached out a large gloved hand, grasping at your neck. Against your thoughts, you nearly sighed in relief at the sensation of cold leather against heated skin. At least you did until you felt gloved fingers suddenly press down and stroke over that scar. A strangled noise left your throat instinctively. 

It was only when you heard through your panting the sound of laughter that you realized that you had whimpered from the sensation. 

A single scarred, opaque eye stared down at you.

“Nothing but a traitorous dog.” 

You glared up at him through the heated tears blurring your vision. Better to be a traitorous dog than blowing up half of Europe, you said silently. When...if you got out of this alive, you’d drag him to Adler and then leave him to rot. 

If there was anything you learned in your life that you actually remembered, it was that the CIA dished out worse things than death. 

When his other hand reached for you, you desperately tried to just move but everything in your body felt so utterly numb. Without much resistance from you, Stitch easily placed the object he had in hand on to your face, securing the straps around your head. 

It was only after you took a wheezing, muffled breath that you realized he put on a gas mask on you. 

A working one. 

It wasn’t until after you greedily breathed in lungfuls of clean air that your vision finally cleared and your body felt normal. You blinked away the heated tears that had once clouded your eyes and stared up in confusion at the Perseus operative. 

Why?

Stitch stared down at you for a few moments before nodding slightly to himself. 

“Alright. Let’s play, _маленький предатель_.”

You staggered to your feet, immediately reaching for the knife holstered at your thigh. Gripping the knife tightly in your still somewhat numb hand, you nearly blinked at the familiar feeling of it all. 

“Just like old times, _nyet_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for my grammar, folks. I came up with the details and outline for this fic while waiting for over an hour at the DMV. And I wrote this while I was tired after I came back (which is both a good and a bad thing). Anyways, I hope this didn't turn out too bad. I'm going to post part 2 tomorrow. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

As you brought your knife swiftly to deflect a glancing strike, you could feel the fast thud and thumping of your heartbeat in your ears. The adrenal rush of it all gradually overtook the lingering numbness left by the nerve agent. Your hand steadily gripped the knife as you parried blow after blow. 

_It’s odd_ , you thought, jerking back to dodge a pointed stab from your opponent. His movements were so...readable. His shoulders kept moving minutely in anticipation to strike from a certain angle and the steps he took. 

_Predictable_.

In fact, you could almost feel yourself relax in the security of it all. 

It felt more like a _spar_ than anything else. 

With every strike you attempted, he would simply block, and vice versa. Give and take again and _again-_

You couldn’t help but wonder in the back of your mind. 

_Was he toying with you?_

There was just something about the way Stitch was staring down at you as if he was more _amused_ by this than anything else...

 _Like a cat with a mouse_ , you thought to yourself, _lulling its prey into a false sense of security_. Unfortunately for him…

You were no mouse. 

Stitch was undoubtedly larger than you, which made him have that physical advantage. Yet he never pressed it. In fact, he did quite the opposite…

You focused on the distance between Stitch and yourself. He was close but not _that_ close. 

Keeping you at a distance, was he?

That would have to change. 

Just as his shoulders tensed, fists preparing to strike you, you moved, countering his blow. You broke his guard with your elbow bashing his stomach.

Of course, he moved. 

But you felt the resistance of the lighter section of his combat vest against the blade of your knife. 

You had landed a hit. Just as you were about to pull away, you realized something.

Stitch didn’t even so much as _flinch_. 

Before you could curse in consternation, the cold steel of his knife slashed into your arm.

 _Tis but a scratch_ , you said to yourself, hurriedly putting distance between you both. Although, you knew it was going to be a pain to hide from Adler and the others later. 

You’ve had worse. 

Besides, the pain made your arm feel more alive as your body slowly recovered from the effects of the nerve agent. 

And then you noticed another little important detail.

You left your damn knife in his shoulder. 

_Shit_ , you thought. It must have slipped out of your still somewhat numb hands. 

Despite the pain and adrenaline, your movements were duller than before. You had been relying on him to at least flinch from the pain, just one little moment to pull away from him. 

Much to your horror, his gloved hands grasped the dark handle of your knife and pulled it out in one quick jerk.

The blade was stained a deep crimson. 

Why the hell wouldn’t he at least flinch-

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of steel clattering on the floor. That bastard threw your knife across the room!

As he circled you, you took note of his tattoos visible on his forearms. As if noticing your attention, Stitch lowered his forearms, moving them slightly more into view. There was something akin to pride in how he showed the dark ink of manacles on both of his wrists.

You had an idea on what those tattoos meant: sentences of more than five years each on each manacled wrist, signifying all those years he survived in the gulag...

...You _really_ didn’t want to get into a fist fight with him. There was a saying about picking your fights wisely and you sure as hell were going to adhere to that. 

_Damn it_.

As if sensing your frustration, Stitch sheathed his own knife at his shoulder, taking several leisurely steps forward just as you backed away from him. 

There was something downright _predatory_ in the way he followed your every move. 

At that moment, you longed for your knife.

“Is that all you have?” Stitch asked with his head shaking as if disappointed, “Those Americans have made you weak.” 

You glared up at him. Sure, it wasn’t as if your body wasn’t just intoxicated with a debilitating nerve agent only minutes ago. 

A lone opaque eye stared down at you and you could have sworn he was smiling beneath that dark gas mask of his, “I must teach you a good lesson.”

You glanced subtly towards the doorway behind him. There was some cover for you behind the construction equipment if he fired at you with his MAC-10. That golden time of reload was when you’d really make a break for it. 

Even as he took one step forward, you stood your ground this time-

...And promptly flipped him off. 

Yet just as you made a few steps in your mad dash to the crates and equipment by the doorway, you heard the much expected sound of a gun rattling. 

...What you _didn’t_ expect was your vision flooded with stars as your head rested against the cool floor. You blinked to find the MAC-10 submachine gun lay by your side... _that wasn’t there_ _before._

_What the-_

You blinked.

That son of a bitch really threw a _light sub-machine gun_ at you... as a _weapon_. 

_“Убегать? Я так не думаю.”_

_At least use the knife_ , you thought as you scrambled to your feet, wondering what the hell they taught in the Soviet gulag. 

Just as your hand grasped the MAC-10, a heavy boot kicked away your hopes of getting the weapon. 

Once again, an all too familiar large gloved hand lunged for your throat. However, this...this time you readied yourself.

You wouldn’t take it lying down quietly. The playing field was even this time, after all. 

You grasped a handful of gray silica dust, throwing it at his eyes. Before he could even react, you rolled to your feet and grasped his shoulder from behind. You swung your legs over his shoulders and around his neck.

He grunted, his hands fighting to loosen your vice grip around his neck. He got one hit to your ribs, making you wince. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of any grunts. You struck his head repeatedly with your elbow until he’s dazed and wobbly. Then you clasp his head and pull it back, winding up for a punch to his eye.

What you wouldn’t give for a pencil right now-

Your thoughts were cut off by stars once again flooding your vision as your very breath left your lungs. You stared up at cerulean and opaque eyes. 

He was strangling you. 

You tightened your legs around his neck even more. 

He couldn’t do that if he passed out first. 

Even as he strangled you, you couldn’t help but grin in vindictive satisfaction as Stitch took a wheezing breath. 

You both were close-

His shoulders suddenly moved beneath you as your world tilted sideways- 

All you could register was the sound of wood splintering and groaning in protest. Your legs’ grip on his neck was broken as he now pinned you against the crate. You blinked dazedly as you stared at him, taking a wheezing, muffled breath in your gas mask.

You tensed as fingers dug into your neck, scraping against the scars there. 

Your eyes watered. You could register the all too familiar ringing in your ears that grew louder and louder with the burning in your chest. 

_No, no, no,_ **_not again_ ** _-_

You clawed at his hands gripping your neck. Above the thudding of your heartbeat, you registered the sound of a radio crackling to life. 

“ _Канистры посажены_.”

A pair of mismatched eyes met yours. You heard a muffled sigh from his gas mask, one that made you almost swear he was _disappointed_ by the interruption. 

“We must play again soon.” 

Before you could even blink, he headbutted you. Your vision swam. You heard the sound of plastic being punctured and the smell of peaches once again flood your senses. 

You instinctively brought a hand to your gas mask only to feel a large slit in the filter.

That bastard punctured your gas mask. 

Desperate, you bucked against him as your hands clawed against his combat vest, feeling the familiar shape of a knife at his shoulder. You jerked the knife free and swung it downwards at his arm holding you down. 

He let your neck go to guard against the strike. You gasped, glad to have some air to soothe your burning chest-

-Only for your breathing to soon collapse into a series of wheezes rattling your chest. The sickly sweetness in the air suffocating your lungs. Once again, your vision blurred. You lunged forward blindly for the gas mask at Stitch’s face.

You saw his hand once again reaching for your neck. Damn it, you just needed one moment-

There was something ugly and desperate clawing at the back of your mind. Something that made you jerk forward, meeting his hand. You felt the bare skin of his gloveless fingers against your lips as you opened your mouth-

-and promptly _bit_ down. 

You heard him shout several muffled curses into his gas mask as the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth. You released his fingers and lunged for his gas mask. 

His lone cerulean eye with its pupil nothing but pinpricks smiled ferally down at you. 

“ _Сука_.” 

Only then did you register the way his shoulders leaned to the right. 

Desperately, you reached down to block his blow. Stitch didn’t have those visible tattoos for the hell of it. 

In other words, you messed up and _badly_ at that. 

He struck your stomach. Your diagram spasmed as you doubled over, still wheezing for air your lungs refused to let in-

Your hands clawed at his combat vest as you fought to keep yourself up. The nerve agent was going to kill you at this rate. You couldn’t fall and pass out not now-

Yet, as your knees buckled beneath you, your final thought was but one thing.

_You were never going to go near peaches ever again._

* * *

The industrial fan’s steady whirring buzzed through the safehouse. Coughing yet again, you absent-mindedly rubbed at your throat, minding the bruises on the sensitive skin there. 

You couldn’t tell if it was from the strangulation or the nerve agent’s effects on you. 

“Anyone up for some ice cream?” Lazar said from behind you. Trying to suppress the growing itch in your chest to cough, you simply nodded and blindly chose one of the cold containers in the plastic bag. Lazar was the one chosen for grocery duty this week. One of your favorite things about that was him always being willing to get little indulgences such as sweets and fries. 

Breaking the plastic wrapping around the disposable spoon attached to the lid of the container, you walked away to your little secluded corner of the safe house. The background noise of the industrial fans were helpful in hiding your coughing. You didn’t want to worry the others nor did you have any interest in divulging all the details of what went down in the mall. 

After you collapsed before Stitch, you had woken up to the blurry figures of Adler and his team crowded around you. “ _You’re lucky, kid_ ,” Adler had said through his gas mask, gesturing to the toxic green haze in the air, “ _Nova-6 canisters were detonated. Good thing you had your mask on in time._ ” 

All you had done was blink dazedly in confusion. 

But you _hadn’t_ put on your mask. The damn thing was wrecked beyond use. 

You mulled over this as you opened the lid to the cold ice cream container. Your throat was raw and sore from all the coughing you had done. As you absent-mindedly took a bit of the ice cream from the spoon, you nearly moaned in relief at the feeling of coldness against your sore throat. 

And then you registered the _taste_.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you cursed, pulling the spoon out of your mouth. Your eyes shot to the label on the ice cream container you had neglected to read.

_Peach ice cream._

The sickly sweetness lingered in your mouth. In fact, you felt your teeth ache and tingle from the sugar of it all. It was both a pain and a pleasure. You were always one to love a good sugar boost when caffeine wasn’t an option...

You looked mournfully down at the ice cream container. You swore you would have nothing to do with peaches-

...But your throat was so very raw and the ice cream felt _good_. 

Giving into temptation at last, you took another sinful bite of the peach ice cream. 

You brought a hand to your mouth as you muffled the sounds of a series of wheezing coughs wracking your chest. You looked down banefully at the peach ice cream container...

**_It really was too sweet._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Jak_the_ATAT for beta-reading this chapter and making it awesome! I couldn't have felt good enough about the chapter to post it without their comments and feedback on what to change. 
> 
> Also, this chapter was...interesting to write. The action sequence in this chapter is the longest one I've ever written. So it was new and rather nerve-wracking for me to write this but at the same time, I got a lot of valuable practice and feedback out of it. Well, I hope this chapter turned out okay and that y'all enjoyed reading it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Blood, Accidental tasting of Blood (there's context I swear), Forced Attempted Vomiting, and Minor Character Death. There's some scenes in here that may be subject to different interpretation.

“As you know, Perseus continues to be at large. However, there’s been a significant shift in his operations towards chemical warfare production in Rebirth Island. We suspect the operative behind this is Vikhor Kuzmin-” 

Having been previously grounded to paperwork duty in the safehouse by Hudson, you were one among some of the few analysts to help Adler prepare the briefing. There wasn’t much point in you devoting your full attention to something you effectively helped create. 

You tried to ignore the eyes that proceeded to look at you at the mention of _his_ name. You turned your attention to the nagging irritant that had been tearing at you for the past hour.

She was a walking airborne toxic event of bright hints of green soon drowned by overpowering artificial fruity notes with orange blossoms accenting the scent. However, beneath the bombastic scent, there was something there that just _tore_ at you. 

You tilted your head to the side, trying to avoid being so subtle about sniffing. Although, the scent she left in her trail as she walked past you at the table was anything but subtle. Suddenly, Nancy whipped around on her heels, scowling at you with an offended look. 

Apparently you hadn’t been so lowkey about it.

“Are...are you smelling me like a dog?” It came out as almost a defensive sneer with her lip curled in disdain. 

You once again leaned your head to the side, trying to guess what that damn scent tearing at you was, “You _smell_ -”

“Oh, screw off,” Nancy scowled down at you before storming off in those heels of hers. 

She was a hotshot analyst with a stellar education from Yale, according to the briefing. More specifically, she was a new analyst brought to cover your workload. After all, you were assigned to focus on identifying and decrypting any and all weaknesses in the cryptography of the Underground Collective. 

As she stormed off, she left a thick and heavy trail of that bombastic scent. _Giorgio_ **,** she had called it rather proudly and imperiously.

_This scent_ , you thought, massaging your temples with your hands. The nausea had developed into a migraine with a steady throb in your head. It was only when the pulsing slowed that you focused on the scent finally.

You hid your grimace with a hand over your mouth and nose, not wanting Adler to notice your lack of attention on his briefing. And then you recognized the scent. 

**_Peaches._ **

* * *

You sighed, passing the monitors surveillance station yet again. You had been making rounds around the safehouse with the files casually clutched in hand. Your Walkman played Pat Benatar’s “ _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ ”. It took your mind away from the still nagging scent of that damn _Giorgio_ perfume accented by the smell of _peaches_. 

You didn’t know how many times Nancy applied that cursed fragrance. She must have done it recently because you could have sworn the smell of peaches got _stronger_.

You shook your head to yourself. You were going to focus on work, not that godawful scent. 

You proceeded to go over the files in hand. Numbers and encryptions swirled in your mind. Perseus must have assumed his crypto communications had been compromised. They reverted to a new system soon after Solovetsky. However, one couldn’t re-engineer and rebuild an entire encrypted communications system in six months. 

Not without mistakes.

Even though they used one-time pad ciphers, there were always those weak links.

Mistakes. 

A little slip up here and there in sloppily reusing certain one-time pads is all it took for just a little part of the communications to be compromised.

However, even as you made progress in identifying the surprisingly many mistakes of the past and present encrypted communications of the Underground Collective, your thoughts soon wandered. 

After all, that sickly sweet fragrance of peaches lingered in your thoughts. You had been grounded to fieldwork upon Hudson’s insistence. 

You knew the looks they gave you after that operation in the Mall at the Pines. Up until then, there weren’t any living witnesses to encounters with Stitch, however rare his appearances were until that point.

Yet he spared _you_. 

Perhaps, he wanted to torment you under Perseus’ orders to make your death slow and painful, fitting for that of a traitor to the collective. That’s something you took cold comfort in. 

_At least there was a logical reason for it_ , you thought with the upbeat tunes of a song in your mixtape playing through the headset at your ears. 

Just as you walked past the caged in areas where the sensitive cryptography machines were held, you blinked as everything suddenly went dark. 

You quickly removed your headphones to your neck, pressing pause on your Walkman at your waist. You could hear the click and rumbling of the backup generator kicking on. The emergency lights suddenly flooded the safehouse with crimson lighting bathing the room you were in. 

Suddenly, you heard gunshots coming from the other side of the safehouse. _Close to the entrance where the surveillance monitors were_ , you guessed. That made sense. What little security was at the safehouse was located there. It was the most efficient way to secure the site. 

As you heard the sound of gunshots come to an abrupt end and heavy footsteps rushing around, you immediately dropped to cover under the desk you found yourself standing beside. It was only a matter of time before they swept the entire safehouse, securing or eliminating any sensitive intel and remaining personnel. 

You instinctively reached at your hip in a familiar motion only to silently curse when you only found your Walkman there.

After the operation at the Pines, you noticed the rather uneasy looks some of the personnel sent you. They had been filled in on the bare details of your background, omitting MK Ultra of course. All they knew was that you used to work for Perseus and that you weren’t completely stable mentally as shown by the medications you had to take. 

Ultimately, that had culminated in Hudson strongly _suggesting_ that you didn’t carry around a handgun in the safehouse. Sims managed to make a compromise between the two of you by offering for you to have access to the weapons locker anytime in the safehouse. Although, you always had to go to him for that. 

And Sims was _not_ here. 

Based on the number of footsteps you heard a distance aways, you guessed the strength of the attacking force to be around 4-6 at max. Outgunned and outmanned, you thought to yourself. If you had your weapons...it’d be a different story. 

But there was one thing that you had: a knife. 

And most importantly...

_Closets_. 

You pressed yourself close to the walls with your ears alert for any approaching sounds. When you heard a single pair of footsteps coming closer to your corner, you withdrew the knife from its sheath at your waist. 

As soon as you saw the back of the operative, you lunged forward quietly. You pressed one hand against the mouth of the operative, muffling the yell of surprise from him, before slamming it into his jugular. His body soon sagged against you in a matter of moments. 

Immediately, you let his body go down to the floor silently while you looked for any weapons on him. You grabbed the Krig 6 assault rifle from his hands and the Makarov pistol from his holster.

Knowing what Belikov taught you over a few bottles of vodka, you dragged the operative’s body over to the nearby maintenance closet. You quietly opened the doors and propped his body against the interior of the closet. Then you shut the doors. 

Checking the ammo count on the Krig 6 and the Makarov, you smiled to yourself as best as you could in the present situation. It sure as hell was better than taking on the attacking force with just a knife in addition to making sure other safehouse personnel weren’t caught in the crossfire.

Speaking of the personnel, how many were left alive in the safehouse? There were at least 4 analysts not working anywhere near the entrance of the safehouse where you heard the gunshots originate from. 

You knew what your priorities were.

Secure or eliminate sensitive intel and technology in addition to ensuring the safety of the analysts from the attacking force if possible.

* * *

The radio crackled to life at your hip, sending a note of alarm through you. The noise was impossibly loud in the quiet of the corridor you were in. As you crouched behind a wall with your rifle ready for an ambush, you cautiously reached for the radio at your waist, lifting it up while dialing back on the volume. 

“I know you are here, _маленький предатель_.” A voice nearly rumbled over the radio. You grimaced at the familiar muffled deep voice. The sickly sweetness of peaches always accompanying his presence was something you could nearly taste in your mouth. 

It didn’t help that Nancy’s fucking perfume was accented by peach fragrance. 

Resisting the urge to leave a few choice remarks, you reduced the volume of the radio to little more than a slight whisper into the air. You scanned the empty hallway ahead of you for any sign of movement.

All clear-

“You cannot hide, _Зая_ ,” Stitch said, his voice carrying down the corridor. There was something about his voice almost savoring the dread it got from you. You risked leaning out once more to peer down the seemingly empty hallway. Where could he be hiding? 

“I will find you.” 

You further pressed yourself against the wall with your breathing coming out in halting little breaths in anticipation. You could hear footsteps from a distance coming closer and closer-

And then those heavy footsteps _stopped_. 

“Oh, Bell.” Stitch sighed out in his thickly accented voice. You nearly swore that you could hear your very own heartbeat in that moment. There was something, daresay, _intimate_ about the way he said your name for the first time. It was as if he _savored_ saying those words. 

“We’ve got a job to do.” 

And then your vision flashed _white_. 

_How odd_ , you dazedly thought as you found yourself staring up at the large familiar, hooded figure. Instinctively, you reached for your Makarov at your waist and aimed it at him. Strangely, he didn’t react aside from the rather amused and muffled breath of air he let out from behind his mask. 

You twitched at the scent of those damn peaches yet again. Damn it. Nancy and Stitch would make quite the pair considering how they both favored annoying the hell out of people with obnoxious scents like _peaches_. 

“Hey, Peaches.” you said easily with your Makarov aimed at him. Yet the Perseus operative remained nonplussed. 

He tilted his head to the side slightly before chuckling lowly, “Drop the gun, Bell.”

You nearly laughed with him at the ridiculous order. Yet when you tried to raise the gun higher to his head, you found yourself paralyzed with something clawing at your mind. 

_Don’t_. 

It was all too easy to let the hand aiming the Makarov fall to your side with the gun’s safety on as it dropped to the floor. Your fingers trembled with effort, trying to pick up that gun again because why why why couldn’t you raise the gun enough to shoot him-

“Isn’t it funny?” he said while amusement danced in his lone cerulean eye as he shook his head, “Adler put that crimson bunker door in your mind.” he said with a little mutter about амерѝка̄нскӣ and their foolish games. 

Stitch took several sauntering steps towards you. Yet you couldn’t even bring yourself to step away with just one quick little order from him telling you to be still. 

“But he forgot to throw away the fucking key.” he said, his face inches from you. You tensed at the smell of peaches growing stronger to the point where you could taste its sickeningly sweetness in your mouth. You bit your lip, instantly tasting the familiar metallic taste in your mouth. 

His lone cerulean eye looked down at your lips in some kind of interest...fascination? 

As the taste of peaches and blood mingled in your mouth, you felt something twitch inside of you. 

You took a step back.

In that moment, you could have sworn Stitch smiled beneath his mask.

Suddenly, you lunged forward, driving your knee into his solar plexus, ballistic armor be damned. His shoulders moved, giving you just enough time to brace yourself when he slammed his fist into your abdomen. All that was on your mind was one thing:

He exploited something in you. And you needed to end this before he could do it again. 

You made a desperate move for his rifle, gripping the stock as he turned it towards you. All you could hear was the crack ringing through the air. 

You instinctively looked down, expecting to see a bloom of crimson on your clothing. Yet you saw nothing. 

Against your better instincts, your attention was compelled to your leftside where there was...crackling of static coming from a radio. Strangely, you could hear distorted voices coming from it again and again. 

_That static_ , you winced. 

You whipped around to face the current problem. Stitch tilted his head as he looked down at you, interest dancing in his eyes. 

“ӱ̷̨̡̢̨̧̧̨̡̛̛͖̘̲̬̼͉̺͇̟͍̗̟͉̪̹̬̘͚̖̞̪͔̫̳́̋̇͛͗̃̈̈́̀̌̊̓̇̿̇̈̆̽̅̓͂̿̏͑̇̍̿͗̎̑̄͒̇̋̔͆̏̆̔͂͒̆̋͑͘̕̚͠ͅͅͅв̴̡̨̡̨̢̨̛̙̱̩̞̙͓̣͔͈̞͇͚͔̤̞̼̯̻̭̘̩̗̻̜̗̝͓̞̠͚̗͖̹͉͖͍̮̮͉̗̤̞͈̰̳̞̤̠̦̟͙̜̤̩̮̠̤̠͚̖̪̜̱̓̾͑̄̈̅̽̓̉̃̇̔̅̋̃̓̓͋̌̉̀̃͌͑̇̚͠͝͝ͅͅл̷̢̢̢̧̨̡̧̡̨̢̡̢̡̡̡̢̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̻̲͓̤̞̟͉͕̙̙̝̳͍̝̪̤͓͕̠̤̹̺̺͔͍̯̯̹̤̜̱̺̩̯̣̯͎̺̗̰̪̘̼͈̟̯̣̜̬͓̞̠͉͔̼͔̥͉͓̦̫̼̟̜̖̬͙͇̠̠̪͍̣̱̰̦͖̹̮̠̝̪͔̬̺͓̩̜̪̼͇̞̳͙͍̝͚̰̳̥͍̯͙̼̙͚̬̭̤̺̮̝͍̯͚̜̼̰͕̜̱̟̖̠̻̹̙̭̲̺͎̮̙̹͙̳͚̹̭͍̘̯̝͖̝̼̬̜͉̟̫̮̹̳̥̝̤̹̫̖̻̗̲̣̘͉̲͉̞̘̥͔̯͔̼͙̼̣̪̰̣̼̰̼̱̼͆͐̋́̆̾̿̓̉̑͌̅̏͊̏̀̍̿̊͑̓̇͗͊͗̅̉̅́̎̂̄̎̌̏̊́̐̐̎͐̉̔̄͒̿͑̉̈́̏̂̒̈̐̔̑̄̌͊̂͐̐́́̔͊̋͑̅͗̊̂̔̃̄̓̇͗̽̔̈́̽͊͂̄͗͛̌̇̃̈́͋͋̋͋̐̆̅̎̈́̊̇́͒̑̏̈́̈́͑͛͌̎̆̓̕̕͘̕͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅе̷̨̢̧̨̢̡̡̧̢̧̨̡̨̧̢̧̢̧̡̡̛̛̛̛͈͍̬̝̭̻̺̬̭̞̖̠͓͉̟̻̲͓̭͈̗͈̖͙͙̱̹̜̫͈̖̟̟̪̰̗̗̻͚̹̩͇̺̞̫̥͇̮̱̤̪̩̘͕̝͙̠̥̹͓͙̼͚͔͙̫̖̜̠͕͈͔͚͎͙͇̙̥̹̥̼̲̖̟̺̗̜̭̠͈̩͈̤̳͖̬̳̜̺͈̯̣͔̮̲̻̯̹͍̞͇͎͈̦̯̘̱̩̤̟̪̘̺̘̳̜̱̮̪̬̪̭̯̳̖͍͉̗̣̣̠̥̞̯̝̝̭̰̞̠̲̞͙͙̠̹͍̮͖̪̖̗͔̬̘̮̪̱̤͉̖͔͇̞͈̭̗͖̹͕͚̩̼͙̤̗̥̭̞͔̪̙̹̥̼̜̳͙̞̤̬̖̺̩̜̤̲͉̊̇̆͋̔̑͑̄̈͊̋̔͐̾̍̔̇͗̀͗̑̽̄̔͂͐̓̎́̽̐̋͊͗̓̈́͒̄͂̈́̏̃̿͗͛͂͂͛͗͒͋͊̌̾̅̆̃͋̇̈́̆̊̾̐͋̅̾̅̄̉̋̊̉́̿̾̊̏̈́͒͛̊͂̐͆̅̈̂̑̈́̄̔̾̉͒̿͛̓̏͑͌̽̽̿̒̿̃̐̒̂́̒̑͆̅̎̆͌̌̌̓͆̈́̂̌͛͒̀̋̾̄̿̽̐̃͐̉͊̐͑̈́̑̒̓̉̊̈́͂̐̑́̆̌̃͊̓̊̀̓̇̅̓͊̈̑́̃͐͋̌͂̈́́͊̐̋̈́̏̇͂̉͌̅͛̓̃͊̋̾̒̓̃͗͗̌͗͌̂͐̈̑̍͒̔̽͆̒̎̂̌̿͗̄̓͋̈́̇̃̇̿͌̎̕͘̕̚̕̕̚̚̕̕̕̚̕͘̕̚͘̕̕̕̚̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅк̷̧̡̨̨̧̛̗̲͓̞̠͎̤̙͓̤̳̩̖̼̟͉̘̣͎̼̦̼̭̥̥̘͉͙̠̣̫̻̭͚͍̦̹̭͕̹͓͇̹͍̖͍͖̙̟͂̄͑̓̽̂͂͑̉͑̅͒͊̆̊̋̌̒̈́͌̓͊̃̄͆̃̽͂̂̓̍̊͌̒̒̒̂̕̚̕̕͘͜͝͝͠ͅͅа̶̢̡̡̨̨̤̠̖͕̗̖͚̩͈͉̟͇̥̹͚̩̰̳͔̝̗͓̭͙̪̺̰͔͚͖͎̼̩̥̖̠̼̬̩͈͙̠̞̮̻̗̜͇̫̯̠̫̙̗͚͈̭̟͎̘͍̩̗̖͕͍̮͙͓͕͈͖͙̱̳̇̅͋̒̆͊̚̕͜͜ͅт̸̧̢̡̨̡̧̨̧̢̧̡̢̢̨̧̨̨̢̡̧̧̧̛̛͎̤̝̤̯̘̰͙̳͎̣̪̹̻͙̤̦͎̬̼͎̮̬̺̼̣̟̠̖͙̠̰͙͕̭͉̖̲̜̙̫͇̜̤̥͓͎͙͈̞̱̪̙̱̺̝̰̳̰͙̩̰̳͚͎̖͍̱̰̺̟͓͇̮̰̦̞̮̼͖̺̖̘̜̘̼̱̤͎̘̳̙̩̦͍͚̤͇̭̗̜̪͕͙̦̗̪̮̤̣͈͓̺͔̩̮̞̹̬̙̪̱̝̫̮͈̫̤̫͉̘͔̤͈̻̝̙̖̺̼̩̠̗̞͕̘̭͚̦̬͓̮̲͖̺̤̝̖͇̜̱͓̭̙͉̗̬̹̞͎͎͙̱̳̦̩̭͎̩̜͔̼͕͕͕̦̜̦̮̪͔̝̩͍̥̯̜̲͍͕̹͕̲̠̫͈͕̞̖̹̭͎̰̘̮͔̞̲̳̭͓͉̗̯̩͖͈̖͚͇̭͙̫̤͓̘̖͇̤̩͈̺͇͔̙͕͈͍̂̒̊̆͐̓̒̀̀͂͂͂̄̒͋̓̍̅̈͗̀̽̑͆̉̂̀͂́̓͋͒́̍́̅̀̈́̒͑̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅе̸̡̢̢̧̨̧̢̡̡̧̢̧̢̡̨̡̡̨̨̢̡̛̛̛̛͎̝̝̲͕͖̮̗̠͈͓̞̮͍̻̝͉̗̤̺͕̮̭͇̬̦̰̩͎̹̥̼̮̺̞͙̮̟̠̦͇͓͈̹̰͎̹̙̟̮̬͚͖̘̙̞͉̯͖̳̼̺̭͕̯͍̟̥̫̱̠͍͎̬͍͕̦͈̗̭̙̺͎͉͉͇̤̬̟̪͙̳͕͍͔͓̙̜͍̮̟̞̙̦̲͈̼̘̬͈͈̜͙̺̤̭̯̮̺͇̱͚͓̪̲̦̳̥͕̤̜̘̰̺̯̺̣͎̗̯̯͎͍͙̮̘̭͍͇̝̳͍̜͍͚͔̥̜̯̻̺͓͕̰̞̝̱͎̘͔̗̣͈͚͔̝̫͉̘̤̳̹̖̣̲̺̮̼̦͙̳̦̝̭̭͕͖̦̦̦͓͚̦̱͔͉̯̤̩̝̟̪̥̭̭̜͍̺̔͂̆̌̀͐̈́͒̌̍̉͂̾̔͆̀͒̿͋̋̆̑̌̑̊̏͌͊̄̽́͌͆͛̄͒͋͛̈́̒̓̌̇̔̇́̀̓̉̈́͗͆̈́̎̂͐̔̔͊̏̀̉͌̂̑̊̈̐̈̽̎̽̾͐͂͊̀͛̒͌̽̏̉̽̿̒̿͑̍͗̾̽͆̄̾̈́̅̄͂̽̿̀̀̈́̄̄̈́̓͒́̐́͑̐̈́̓̏̇̏̌̄̽̂͗͂̌̅̄̽̂̀̐̒̈́͋̿̃̒̔͐̾͑́͐͗̈̽̅̍̊̓͆͋̍͐̇̒̄̅̔̒͒̈͊̾̒̉̑̒̌̀̊̒͑̊̅̓̀͊͒̌̏͂̑͛͘͘͘͘̕̚͘̚̕̚̕̚̕͘̚̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅл̴̡̨̡̢̡̨̧̢̧̧̡̨̧̲͓͉͍̱͕͖͕͎͉̞̘̖̼̠̭͇̳͈̭̠͎͕͈̯͍͖̘͓̗̰̩̥̯̫̗͉̘̮͔̳͔̫̪̻̣̼͉̗̳̬̯̱̹̙͍͇̬̜̥͇̬̻̗̭̼͖̤̟̺̖̪̭̗̬̟̠͚̠̲͍̟̥̖̟̥͖̼̻̞͚̖̙̲̗̩̼̣͖͈͈̭̫̺̪͇̤̳͓̠̙̠̹̖͈̰̭̖̜͈̤̙̳̲̤̗̩̤͚̮̰̰̖͇͕̝̬̘̠͎̖̻̬̟̞̺̠̥̫͎̜̠̤̘̗̝̳͉͎̩͖̹̭̱͈͇͍̤̞̮͔̲̮̪̙̫͕̖͈̜̣̜̪̜͔̮̣͔̲̪̪̤̱̰͎̣̻͈̖̜̦̣̣̪̈́̂̈͌͊̈́̎́͐̓̉͊͊͐͆̾͒̓̏͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅь̷̡̧̨̧̢̧̨̢̧̡̨̧̨̨̡̨̧̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̘̻̲̙̦̹̯͈̯̤̫͍͈̗͔̭̙̘͉̳͙̰̖͔͔̗̤̰̭̹͚̟̟͉͙̹̬̰͉͇͔͔̯̝͓͓͚̩̘̜͕͔͈̤̘̹̣̳̫̘̝͉̖̯̪͇̹̼̗̻̮͙̠̬͍̠̮̯̘͖͕̝̭̲͉̰̻̩̤̲̺̗̘̲͚̤͎̙͇̲̠̭̦͓̦̤̥̫͖͕̤̗̹̹͕͇͇̗̳̯̠̥̱̱͔͖̗̹̠̫͕̠̗̱̤̦̙̯͙̗̰̞̮̮͔͍̭͚̖͎̪͎͈̥̙͕͍̣̤̭͈͔̼̫͍͚͈̝̇̇͆̉̇̾̑̓̃̓̆̉͋̈́̌̾̆̅͆̿̉̓̾̆̉̏̉̃̿́̍͒̓̋͑͐͒̓̌̂̀͒̈́̆̊͗̈̇͌̾͌͆͌̎̉̅̉͊͆͒͑̑͐̆͆̏̊̌̎̂̏̈́̑̅̈́̎̀͛̏͋̂̐̾̌̇̒̏́̎͗͗͂̾͌̅̅͌͘̚͘̚͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅн̶̧̡̧̡̢̧̧̧̡̢̧̨̧̧̧̨̛̛̛̬̣͇̥͓̪̖̺̥̦͚͚̼̲̬̙͈̲̰̬̬̩͇͎̪͔̤̯̼̥͔̫͚̗̩̫̗̩̭̯̯͔̝̯̹͚͖̪̼̘͍̞͇͖͓̲̺̤̞̠̮̰̩͉̟͖͈̫̦̟̘͕͚̲̟͍͉̹̳̗͈͇̱̮̜̞͎̼̥̗͚̮͇͓̮͍̞̠̻̮̳̳̣̲͔͉̥͎̮͚̥̪̮̺̫̙̭̭̞͚̱͇̝̤̥̭̺̙̯̩̦̠͔͙̘̯͖̯̗͕͇̭͈͙̫̦͆̑̅͐́̓͛͆̇͗̐̋̑̈͌̽̌̇͋̿̍̌̑͆̀͊̅̑̒̏̈͌̇̆̆̃̽͗̈̐͐́̊͂̊̉͌̑͒͌̚̚̚͘̕͘͘͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅͅы̷̡̧̡̨̢̧̢̢̢̡̡̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̤̘̥̦̞̳̖̲͇̮̝̰̰̣̖̹̜͔͎̱̱̠̺̼͙͖̫̳̼̺̞̻̻͉̮͔͉͙͙͔̳̰̼̲͕̭͓͍̪̬͎̙̝̤̝̜̻̩̼͖̜̝̤͈̝͔͈͚͖̘̜̭͈̦͕̬̠̖͚̳͚̙̥̲̣͚̩͈̬̯̙̘̠͎̻͎͈̜̜̣̬͎̱͔̪̙̜̯̮̐͆̿̓̓̈́̒̃̎̄͊̈́͋̏̍̈́͗̒̒͛̓̔͐́̅̈́̈͋̓̇̓͒͊̑̀̏̊̿̊͐̾͊̐̆̅̀̈͒͆̒̈̎̉̌̀̏̎͒̓͂̎̽͆̍̂͂̈́͊̓̾̏͑̇̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅй̸̨̢̨̨̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̲̟̘͚̼̬̫̬̼̮̼̮̤͈̫͙͈͉̝̬̻͈̤͙͍͍̈́̇̎͌͋̀̒̾̌̓̍̈́̒̎̓́̃̑͂̈́͑͋͛͊̎̏͗̅̆͒̍͂̈́͗̒̏̑͆̐̃̇͋͐̃̿͑̅͛̓̎͂͒̋̃́̐̾͌͑̈́̂͂̂̍̓̂̓̓̈́̎̏̊͐͌̆̑̎̂̊͌͐̋̀̊̆͆̂̓̐̔̄̐̓̂̐̿̏͒̔̂͛̄͗̑͋͂̔̔͗͐̇́̋̑͐̅̈́͗̓͒̓̍̿̈́̒̉̀͒̃͒̊̈̌̍̔̌͊̄̓́̔̅̃̏̇͆͒͆̐̉͑̐̐̑̐̉͋͐̄̾͊̽̐͋̊̂̂͛̆͆̿̑͂͗̍͊̀͗̍̒̇͂̍͛̕͘̚̚̕͘͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͠,”Stitch rumbled out, something in his voice almost excited. Before you could even react with the static crackling in your ears, you saw the blur of the butt of his gun coming at you. 

And suddenly your vision went dark. 

* * *

You blinked. The crackling of static distorted your hearing as it overlapped with the words and sounds around you. 

You saw Stitch walking alongside the lined up analysts with his soldiers standing behind them, their rifles aimed and ready. 

“The first one to give us the microfilm will be…” Stitch trailed off, pondering over what word in English to use, “-pardoned,” he finished with a rather disappointed tone. 

Any volunteers?” he asked dryly, looking over the hunched over forms of the analysts. Some trembled while others were simply frozen in place. You noticed how his attention leaned towards a particularly trembling figure.

“I know where it is,” Nancy piped up.

You blinked dazedly. _It was almost like watching a drama_ , you laughed quietly to yourself. The twist of betrayal. 

“̵̨̢̨̧̡̛̛̱̻̠̩͕͍̯̲̺͇͈̮̤͖̰̜̭̘̙̣̱̗̻̩͓̝̻̞̟̱̹̜̞̘͈̼̞̃̎̂̉͗͛̔̾̈́̃̈́̓́̿̾̽̅̔́̂̎͒̀̈̈͗̌͛̓͛̈́̕͘͝͝ͅН̸̛̰̫͖̭̼̬͈̯̲̪͇̅̂̊̈́͂̈̏̐̋̀̔̈́̐̾̌̏̄̏͆̑̂̍̐̽̍͊̍̃̎͝͝е̵̲̘͖̲͇̲̼̬̹̪̞̬̗̲̜̦̪̒͊̔̽̐̊͒̄͊̒̈́̎̌͜͝ ̸̜̩̤͚͉̠̦̇͗͛̇̋̐̈̉̾̽͒̅̆̍̂͌́̑͐͋̈̇̐̀͑̅̊̿͊̆̋͘͘͝͝п̸̢̨̡̣̤͖͉̦̟̭̤̻͕̙͉̖̮̤̩̮̭͉̮̭̺̦͈̠̲̮̙̠̻͙̙͕̣̳̣̙̪̙̬̠͒̌̊͐̃̾̅͗̋̋͒̐̒͝ͅͅͅо̶̢̢̧͍̰͔̺̝͈̤̰̥̦̭̬̠̗̖̩̯̱̖͈̳̙̗̞̗̠̻͔͉̰͔͉̠͓̼̬̝͚͍̟͌̇̈́̄̽̊̈́͂͒͒͜͠ͅз̷̢̡̡̢̡̰̯̪͎̗̭̘͍̺͚̳͓͎͍͚̥̰̬̬͔̰̰̹̞̪̰̲̺͓̗̪͖̮̮͎̞̙̪̝̙̰͎̞̪̭̠̭͎̻͑̉̓̆͌͌̊͌̔̾̅͆̽̃͌̋̏̈́̇̒̆̚͠ͅв̶̧̢̨̢̢̨̛̙̟̫̜͚̦̖̘̼͙̰̺̗̳̪̳̲̟̪̠̘̻̖͎̬̫͎͈͇̘̗͉̙̉͆͐̌̈͋̾͊͌̔͂̆̈́̎͑̐̈́͒̐̈͑̐̌̾̑͊̂͛̔̓̋̌̏̀̃̀̇͐͐̈́̾̀͘͘͘͜͝͝͠ͅо̵̡̜̞̖̱̰̙̫̝͎̰̻͈͓̓̏͑̅́̓̌̍̄̃̆̎̄͋̋͛͘͝͠л̷̡̢̡̡̧̨̡̡̖̥̮̭̺̞̪̩̤̯̰̖͉̙͉̖̘̰̝̟̗͖͉̝̞̝̤̪̭͈̮͎̻̩̙̼̏̎̀́̌̏̈̆͗̽͂̆̈́̉̿͐̒̊̀͆̾̇͐̏͊̔̕͜͝͝ͅͅя̴̡̨̨̨̢̢͇̥̳̥̱̥͎̟̤̳̣͓͈̣̬̖̯̟͎̜̤͉͔͍̭̩̱̟͉͚͍̩̰͈͈͙͔̳̝̝̞̜͓̠̟͍̮̘̤̠̑̓̿͛̃̓̿̾͛͜ͅͅй̴̢̧̛̛͇̪̬̦͓̙͚̭̭̗͙̳̩͙̬̜͈͉̘̖͔̫̳̤̭̮͔̰̠̜͈̥̭͉͚̣̥͉̼͓̳͔͕̙̲̟͖̣͖̲̺̳̝̩̬̬͍̰͍̈̄̆̓̽͑̏̆͐̏̑̊̐̂̃̅͛̽̾̋̌̐͆̓̀̃͂̓͗͂̄͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅт̸̧̧̨̡̛̦͈̮͙̹̖̦̯̯̠̜̖̰̘͙͉̞̱̔̋̋͆̾͊̒͂̓̃̊̓̿̾͑̀͗͋̋͐̍̾̍͗̅̑̀̿̽̑̈̓͂͒̿̃̔̈̇̆̈́̐̈́̃͒̚͘͘͘͜͠͠͝͝͝е̵̢̛͎͖͉͎̜̟͋̏̓͆͊̾̉̀̇͊̏̌͊̈͒͑̔̐͌̄̌̈́̊̏͑͛̈́̈́̈̄̈̎̄͐̏̄́͒̋̇̈́̏͘̕͝͝͝͝ ̵̡̧̧̨̢̩͍͚̫͍͙͈̱̭͕͓͇̱̠̯̼̳̂̑̆͐̀͊̽̒̓͊͂̾̈̽̍͒̈́̈́̊̄͆͑̾̒͗̋̉̓̋͂͌̔͛̊̅̏̈́͒̀̽̃͂̊̕͘͘͘͘̕͜͜͝͝ͅе̴͉̥̻͙͈̥̙̭̞̗̖̪̜̫͎̝̱̺̌̉̄̀̄̈́̂͋̔̇̓̾͋̇̈́̎̍͂͑̃͘̕̕͝ͅͅй̷̡̹̼͙͖̜̅͊̍͗̚ ̷̨̢̨̧̨̧̧̲̜͖̙̪̟̝̰͈͇̙͔͇̣͙̘̖̻̝̪͓̪͚̼̱͙̦̰̯̥͕̫̞̼̖̝͉̯̯̱̳͖͓̜̭̖̻͕̙͑̿̿ͅй̶̨̧̨̡̛̛̳̜̥͎̘̳͎̭͎̘̦̬͔̼̖̭͙͇͖͖̭͓͔͔͚͇̞̟̤͍̫̪̞͇̟̗͚̦͖͕̲̙̳͔̇̂͑̽̎̈̋̊̈̇̒̂̇̌̊̆̄̉̍͆͗̐̈̔̚͜͝ͅͅд̴̡̨̹̣̭̱̈̔͗̌̎̃͊͂̀͊̃̾̂̌̽͜͠͝ͅͅт̵̡̛̯̙̲̮̟̬̺̤͕̤̩̳̖̣̩̠̣͌̀͑͆͊̈̊̊͐̃̿̓͌͊̇̿̇̌̎͋̋̂̒͒͋̐͐̆̕̕͠͝͝͝и̸̢̡̢̡̨̗͎̣̦͖̭̥̯͈̠̫͙̯͖̪̝͚̥͈͕̘̫̤̻͇͙̜̘̞͎̭̲̞̱͈̙̝͖͓̠̣̺̗͔̭̖͚̹̱͓͔͛̈́̉̒͌̓̄̒́̓̈́̓̂̓͗̃̍̏̚͜͜͜ ̴̨̨̡̢̧̛̛͙̤̻͉̤͈̳̮͎͚͙̯̰͉̖̹͔̙̱̖͈͉̳̖̊̑̓̔͒̐̔̋́͆̂̓̇̉̎̽̈͆́̌̽̓͊̊̇̈́͗̎̓̚̕̕͘͘͠͠н̴̨̢̧̢̨̝̟̗̳̙̭̖͇̩͓̮͓̳̘̙̝̺͎͉̰͕̘͔̙̰̲̥̪̦̗̬̥̩̩͂̉͌̋̋͋͗̈́͜а̴̨̧̧̨̨̨̧̛̩̜̜̝̘̜̰̮͎͍̼̬̪͙̜̯̺͎̟̪͉͉̻͖̘̖͉͍͇̜͍̺̭̙͇͑͐͛͌̎͐̌̽̈́̿̎̉̍̓̈́͐̅̅̓͆͗̑͌̏͊̅͛̎̈̏̑̒͑̆͋̈́̎́̔͂̀̔͛̅̀͑͊̄͐͋̌̈́͑͘̕̕͝͝͝͝ ̸̨̧̢̨̨̡͚̯͚͕̳̣̝͈̥̭͔̮̜̗͚̠̰̣͇̞̱̦̣̫͚̞̘̘̗̠̞̤̤͍̼̮̭̮͇̘̥̜͕̔͌͆̅͆̉̀̈́̄͒́̍͊̎͆̍̈́̔͑͆̋͆̓̋͒̈̓̍̎͐͐̌́̑̈́̄͒͛͐̄̃̈́̿̏͆͛̽̕͘̕̕͝͝͝к̶̧̡̡̨̢̛̛̛̩̬̠͖͍̫̱͖̲̩̪͕̲͎̖͖͕̝͗̑͐͒͂̓̏̔͆̐̐̽̔͆̽̍̅̔̈́̊̽͒̆͌̏̈́̒̋̂̃̿͒͛̈́͒̓̃̈́̂̐̆͆̌̾̋͛͛̈͒͘͘̚͜͝͝͝͠о̸̡̡̛̩̯͇͙̜̘̠̘͓̗͚̖̖͇͇͉̠͚̣͍͇̞̯̝͎̮̦͔͎̩͓̜̘̖̼̠̳͉̣̭͉̱̘̙̠̘͉̫̫͎͉̀̎̋̄̑̅͗̇̍̏͆͊̽̂̍̎̾̊̎́̾̀̎͌͂̓̓͗̇̈́̎̀̈̇̑͠м̶̛̠͈͙̒͛̈́̒̓̍̾́̉̏̉̌̂̽̈̒̇̈́͒̓̾̇͗̑͊̂̎͆́̕̚̚͠͠п̴̨̢̢̢̨̛̛̬͕̬̣̳̖̬̫͎̬̬̘̰͖̠̠̰̟̫̹͙̺͔̘̤͙̱͈̪͍͚͍̥̙̙̩͚̱̹̯͕̻̃̂͑̅̅̐̑̈́̇̍́̔̉̋̉̍̈́͘͘͘ͅр̶̧̢̯͈̣̱͔̰͍̝̖͖͇̤̮̗̲̣̰̺̟̘͙͉͓͎̖̼͕͇̞̦̤̤̞̹̜͔͔̘̗͍̣͔͇̊̃̽͂͗͐̅̔̍̇̍̈́͒̅͊͘͜͝о̵̠̺̘̹͓̖̣̋̊̂̕͠м̴̡̨͖͕̙̝̮̩̠̻̺̣̫̲̘͎̪̝̻̼̳̼͕̖̊͐͗̉̊̽́̊̓͐̒̾̆̑͋͑͌̿̈́̂̓͛͒̓̑̇̂͊͘͘̕͜͝͝͠ͅͅи̸̡̢̧̡̢̨̡̛̭̦̺͓̞̩̪͕̠̞̗̗̯͙͚͓̦͍̖̟̗̜̤̣̝͓̪̣͔͍̰͉̙̱͖͙̩͚̲̥͔̼̤̫̪͕̣̪͍̘̰͎̪͐̄̄̄̑̂̈́̾̉̈́̒͌̿̎͋̃̇̿͑̇̈́̊̈̏́̿͌͑̀̚̚̕͜ͅс̷̨̹̹̳̣͎͎̳̦͎̥̪͕̭̞͇̜͉̟͍̣̰̻̺̪̠͈̟̞̠̮̫̬̞̬͈̰̳̱̹͙̞̖̜͍̜̲̈͗̂̇̀͜͝ͅс̴̧̨̬̜͖͔͓̹̠̩̟͈̘̟̘̳̙̙͔̻̫͎̤̲̠̫̞̳̝̻̯̮̹͌.̴̨̛͖͈͎͈͑͆̃̔̉̊͛̍̾̂͌̅̈́̌̾͗́̉͗̂͒̑̌̄͌́͒̅͋̈́̏̍̀̐̉͒͑͋̚̕͘͝͠͝”̵̛̛͓̬̲̟̋̈́̏̐̇̀̍̎̃̏̈̌̿͑̑͆͂͌͌̓̌̇̊̓̾͋̋̌̃͂͋͌̊̓̕͘̕̕̚̚͝͠͝͝

Something urged you to _move_ , a nagging instinct clawing at the back of your mind.

And so you _did_. 

You kicked at the legs of the Perseus operative standing guard over you, making him shout and pointing his rifle at you. 

“ _Нет! Не убивайте ее!_ ” Stitch barked out. 

Much to your surprise, the Perseus operative hesitated. You didn’t take a moment to indulge in that as gunfire erupted around you. 

You instantly ducked behind the closest thing to you. After hearing the brief pause in gunfire, you made a mad dash to the cover of the desk. There was only one thing on your mind, more than the hostages, more than getting out of there alive.

_Microfilm_ , you thought distantly. 

You needed to prevent it from falling into their hands. 

Somehow, your eyes locked onto that little container containing the microfilm filled with sensitive intel about the operations of Adler and his team. It was slick with blood and your eyes followed the trail of the blood to its originator.

Nancy. 

She was shot several times in the shoulder and abdomen. 

You blinked. That source of momentary cover had been her. 

Н̷̧̧̡̨̧̛̲̣̳̭͇͎̻͇͙̪̰͎̟̫͖͍̭̤̜̟͈͔̠̖̪͔͙͇̱͈̹̳͉̫̖̻̖̱͓̰̞̙̫͖̿͌̄̾̂͑̆̌̐̽͗͂͒́̄͐̏̾̆́̒͋̈́̌͗͛͘͜ͅе̸̢̧̬̞͔̹̘͖͓̼̲͔̫̟͚̯̝͔̤̺̲̹̲͓̩̝͔̼̳̼̉̆̏̆̀̅̐́̈́̃̍͐̇̾̏̈́̑̽͗̆̽̄̋̑̓̃͐̽͊̒̃̾̿͆̅̄͆̿͐̇̏͗̆̕̕̚̕̚͜͠͝͠ͅ ̷̨̛̛̺̥̝̤̬͉̦͚̙͓̞̖̩͇̪̺͚̰̱̫͍̪̺̫̪͐̐̓̌̆̈̋̌̄̐̎̈́̐̎̑̑̃̈̂̓̈̃̂̉̓̉͑̈́͌̅͒̌͌̀̚͘͘͜͝͝д̶̡̢̧̧̨̨̛͈̣͈̘͕̲͉̭̠͈̫̬̺̝̟̳̺͎̣̞̰̼͎̯͕̮̤͎̪͚͖̞̤̠͚͉͓͙̼̠͔̞͕̉͗̎̂̎̎̍̒̀̈́̒̃̒͊̄̌͑̋̒͘͠͝а̶̨̨̢̡̨̨̨̛̩̜̜̠̞̝̟͖̞͚̰͖̦̖̲͕̤̘̤͙͉̭͙̠͔̗̠͉̱̯̭̺͓̣̭̜̞͕̬̮͚̩͉̹͓̄̉̈́̀̉̃͊̈́̋͒̾̓͛̌̂̏̋̈́̒͐́̾̏̿͑̓͆͐̓͆͂͌̄̚̕͘̕̚͝͠ͅͅͅй̵̡̢̡̨̡̢̨̛̩̰͚͔̪͙͈͖̝̦̥̰͉̬͙̱͈̹̼͇̩͎̙̦͔͉͓̭̰̼̰̙͕̣̙̬̮̠̯͎̳͓͔͖̯͇̱͎̭̻͌̑̎̆̄̔̎̊̾̍̅͗͛͐̂̑͂̆̔͗̌̈́̒̆̿̈̋̽̎͗̓̊͑̈́̋̊͂̌̐̾̈̚͘͘͜͠͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅт̴̛͉̲̘̳̬̘̖͙̀̍̉͛̿̃͗̈͂̓͑̈̌͋̍̅̓̏̓̂̓̽͌̓̂̐̉̉̽̂̑͑̆̊̔̈́̅͋̊͆̊͒̄̽̋͗̅̎̽̌͘̕̚͠͝͝͝е̷̧̨̧̨̘̳̝̱̰̭̘̟̝̯̘̯̤̖͓͍̦̯̝͖͎̠͓͍̳̺̘̞̖̪̓̃̋̀͐̃͒͑̾̏̊̌̕̚ͅ ̶̡̛̮̜͎̯̣͑̂͑̄͑̈̔̕͝ͅе̴̨̨̧̛̞͕̤̻͈̺̱̮̩̲͎̝̱̮̱̹̙͉͈͎͈͎̠͊̒̏͛͗̇̇̔̄̈́͊̇̒̍̓̂͒̈́̉̕͘͝͝͝м̴̛̛̦͍͙̱̹̦̼̱͍̤̺̮͈̓̿͒́̂̐̊͌̾̒̈̿̄͂̿̉͗̈̉͑̽̾͑͆̊̃̐̂͑̔̀̋̇͛͆͊͊̐̆͋̈́͗̐̚̚͜͝͠͠у̴̢̡̦̭̟̤͚̜̹̯̺̜̦̬̠̫̱̦͓̭͎̩͎̫͙̗̒̈́̓̿̓̄̊͗͛̐͛́̌̉̋̔̾̑̔̈́̓͗͂̈́̂̿̽͒̚̕̕͝͝͝͠͠͝ ̶̛̛̛̬̬͕͍̱̯͍̰̰̭̹̱̤̹̼̙̬͒̈́͛̀̾̎̃̉̍̑̉̇̅̈́̈́̓͛͒͑͊̉͛̋̆̍͗̋̅̄̽̃̈͘̕͜͝͝п̴̧̢̨̧̨̢̧͇̠̯̫̺̤͇̖͚̱̫͈̺̮̹̹̦͕̤̝̣͚̹͔̞̹̣̺̤̯̹̮̜̲̟̩̟̹̪͈̤͔̳̪͙͖̝̐̈́̈͐͑̏̓͑̔͆̐̌̐̎̽͛͐͒͂̔̈́̅̆̏̑̈̏̌̈́̇̕̕͜ͅͅӧ̷̡̨̡̢̢̨̘̟̫͚͕̮̟̻̹̺̝̦̪̮̦̖͎͖̩̮̤̗͎̦̼͇̙̳̲̜̖̳̗̭͇̦̣̣̞͙̙͔̹̱͔͔̣̑͋̋̒͐̐̍̏̈́́̈́̏͌̿̔̌̂̄̔̂͊͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅп̷̧̡̜̩̘͎̼̥̤̥̩͕͙̭̠͇̙̞̲͍͍̬̅̐̊̂̐̅͂̊͂͗̐͗̊̌̂͆̉̀̀͂̌͊̋͂̎̐͛̅͗͋͂̽̍͜͜͜͜͝͝а̶̡̬̳̜̹͍͖̥̱͈̭͇̣͙̪͖͓̙̯̙͓̮͖̗͔̲͔̳̫̳͎̱̱̩̮͉͓̙̣̤͙͚̻̏͒͊̎̄͗̋̽̂̾͆̋̃͑͌̑̎̐̉̐̽͒͆̓̄̍̇̅̾̈̑̌̿̂͂̉̉̐̔̈́̉́̏̒͒́̏̈́̑̾̎͆͘̕̕͜ͅс̴̨̧̡̨̡̢̨̦͇̪͙̲̙͓̦͚͕̝̖̤̩̥͎͚̥͙̘̘͈̪͕̦̻͖̤̜̠͖̼̗̦͉̫̱̥̩̯͕̱͇̜̱̪̬̯͙̞̝͑͗͌̌͆̈́̂̈́͂̽̄̏̓̀͐̂͗͌̄̄̐͒̍̾̽̄͑͑̈́̔͘͘͜͜͜͠т̶̨̢̛̛͖̙̬͓̼̞̳͉̜͚͈̬͉̫̣̻͖͎͕̭̙̼̪̪̟̹̲̝̙͔̝̲͙̎͋̔͋̓̋̿̓͑̇̀͋͛̅̈́͊̚͝͝͝ь̴͚̈́͜ ̸̧̭̦̦̟̼̩̪͓̥̮͖̻͙̦͎͎̲̙̙̱͖͉̮͎̙̲̼̈́̃͜͜в̵̧̨̨̡̨͚̤̻̯̬̞͉̗͚͇̮̺͙͔̺̘͔̭̫̗͉̺̹̮̖̙̩̣͙̈̽͗̎͊̉̔̌͋̔̂̍̕͜͝ͅͅͅͅ ̴̛̛̛̤̖͖̈̎͋̈̐̃̔͊̔̓̎́̑͐̌̊̂̓̀̀̌̎͆̈͊̎̃͌̎̒̏̏̕͘̕̚͝͝͝͝͠и̷̨̡̛̛̣̩͈̬͍͓̲͉͓̠̙̬̖͔̦̯͓̣̟̻̺̼̓͆̃̈́͑̑͋̔͋̌͋̑͆̊̂̿̋͊̔̏̃̈́̃̽̓͌̈̀̆̍̔̅͋͂̈̆̈́̔̆͐̽̈́͂͘̕͜͜͝х̴̢̡̛̠̼̲̼̗̣̲̫̗̖̰̣̩̼͓̣͚̜̜͎̮̖̟̗͉̠̝̺̞̯̪͇͓͕͎̰̘̞̜͈̝̺͎̥͎̣̬̞̤̼̥͙̲̮͕̙͋̔̽̐̍̌̆̓̈́̋̀͋͐̾͗̈́͆͘͜͜͜ ̶̨̧̢̡̡̰̟̭̪͙̻̩͎̩̦̰̼̗͚͓̗͉͎͈̮̭̠͚͙̙̬͈̳̳̬͇̘̙̖̘̖̤͉̘͈̯̹͓̬̳̹̳̍̍̄̑̋̈̓̌̄̈́̂͐͆̏̾̌͛̑̋̌̈́̎̈́̌̽̃̎̄̆̈́̏̑̑̃͒̈́̆̓͌̄̿̂̒̾́̍̃̉̏̈́̎͆̉̎̕͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅр̴̛̛͇́̓̄͌͆̀̏́́̈́̈̃̏͒͐̅̇̔̾͂͛̒͛̋̒̒͂͋͑̓̓̌̽̑͒̎̽͗̔̈́͒̏̚̚͘̚͘͝у̷̡̧̢̢̧̧̛̠͖̬̹̣̣̫͚̰̝̹̫͍͖̱̬̞̦͍̜̟̣̬̳̱̤̙͎̙̖̗̮̤̤͓̦͉̘̩͖̠͔̪͕̎̓̈́̒̍̔̆̍̒̿̐̅̃̈́̈̊͌̉̑̍̂̚͠͝ͅк̶̨̧̧̧̨̛̜̠̞͖̻̹͇̥͍̳̪̣̙̜̣̘͖͎̮̙̳̭̳̲̤̥̥̬̗͚̟͍̦̘̟̟͕̫̲̬̹͓̠͈̤͓̦͕̝͋̌̆̿̉̃̆͑̎̇̄͂̓̈́͒̓̂̌̓͛̂̆̓̌̋̍͊̐͆́̔̏̆̍̈̉̔̓͋̽̏͋̚͘̚͜͠͝и̶̨̡̨̨͓͍͈̝̞̤̰̳͉̜̮̰̖̝̼̜̰͈̖̯̣͔̻̪̲̟̜̹̟̥͍̭̱͔̜̘̝̱̫̭͎̪̤̖͍̠̉̏͒̐̉̉̇̑͋̓̓͛̅̕͜͜ͅͅ.̴̡̢̡̛̘͉̥̜̮̜͓͎̪͍̖͉̗̯͖̞͓̰̪̺̥̫͕̩͙͚̺͉̗̜̰̺͔̬̲͖̼̣̙͉̯̞̜͇̞̣̺͇̞͛͒̇̅͊͊̇̈͌́̑̈́̃̓̊̏̇̈̂̑͌͒̈́̂̐͂̍͊̐̐̃̌̎͛̊̅̄̑̽͐̆͂̆̄̑̓̏͘̚̚̚̚͝͠ͅ

The static grew louder and louder. Distantly, you snatched up the microfilm roll and looked down at it. It left a crimson mark on your hands with the blood. 

_It was almost instinct_ , you thought numbly. The metallic taste of the microfilm’s blood-slicken surface was acrid in your mouth as was the bombastic peach fragrance aftertaste of Nancy’s Giorgio peach-accented perfume. You swallowed the microfilm container quickly and turned your attention to securing yourself next. 

As you found a pistol on the floor, you hastily gripped it despite the slicken feeling to it. It was covered in blood. You immediately took the safety off and leaned slightly out from the cover of the desk to take aim at the boots walking towards you.

And then you heard it click.

It jammed. 

_Shit_.

The static grew stronger. You winced at the intensity. Where the hell was it coming from? You sure as hell didn’t see any radios or monitors on nearby since the main power was cut by Stitch and his operatives. 

Forcing the static from your mind, you nearly growled in frustration…

—And promptly threw the gun at Stitch. 

You blinked in surprise at the sound of metal hitting the material of his gas mask. He even recoiled slightly in surprise before a feral look entered his eyes.

_Payback_ was one vindictive thought that entered your mind. 

_Oh shit_ was another that soon followed. 

“I will kill your comrades one by one.” Stitch warned. Although, something in his voice easily told you he wouldn’t mind that outcome, “Stop.”

You stared at him through the fuzzy distortion of your vision. 

_Comrades_ , you pondered. 

They took priority over you. 

You relented, going down to your knees as he wanted. 

Still, you refused to look up at him but rather gaze at the analysts still lined up, ready to be shot dead from a single order by Stitch to his soldiers. 

“Give it up,” he demanded, gripping your face tightly with one hand. You simply looked up at him calmly.  
 _No_.

“ _Приведи ее сюда_.” Stitch gestured over to Nancy.

You watched as his operatives hauled Nancy’s body to your feet, leaving a bloody trail in their wake. Her hazy eyes stared up fearfully at you. 

_Gardenias and jasmine_ , you noted vaguely. You hadn’t noticed that about her bombastic Giorgio scent until it had been stripped away of its grandeur right before you in the blood and gore. 

“P-please,” she begged, not looking at you but up at him. 

Stitch chuckled lowly. He too must have been rather amused by her attempts for mercy from him of all people. 

“Look at her,” he gestured to you with the Makarov in hand. 

And so those watery cerulean eyes of Nancy’s gazed at you. 

“...please.” she said quietly.

You only stared at her back blankly. 

She was going to give up the microfilm and anything she knew to Stitch. 

With this thought in mind, you watched the muzzle of the gun press against her head before you heard the gunshot. You only blinked when you felt something wet and warm on your face. 

Distracted by the sensation, you were pulled away from your thoughts when leather stroked against your cheek in an almost affectionate fashion. You felt something wet smear against your cheek as his gloved hand stroked the skin there. 

“Ruthless as always,” Stitch said with a rather approving yet feral look in his eyes as you gazed up at him. He laughed a little to himself before adding, “I’m glad the CIA did not make you soft.” 

You blinked. Why...why hadn’t you said anything when they were going to shoot her?

_She was a traitor_ , the thought came to mind instantly. But you nearly winced at the thought. 

So were you. 

You pulled away from your thoughts suddenly when you felt a firm pressure at your lips. His gloved fingers were pressing against your lips insistently with the wet metallic-smelling substance still on them. 

Stitch stared down at you with that milky eye of his blank and emotionless. It contrasted sharply with his cerulean one filled with a rather keen interest, “Open,” he demanded.

You glared up at him. 

“If any of your piece of shit comrades swallowed that, I would have cut them open like pigs,” Stitch casually said resting a knife at your abdomen as if he contemplated the threat of gutting you open. 

However, the pressure of the knife against your abdomen lightened as he stroked a gloved thumb over your lips. He seemed a little too preoccupied with doing that for some reason… 

“But you, _Зая_ , I will make an exception.”

You blinked once again.

Somehow, that didn’t sound like a good thing. 

Suddenly, his large gloved hand moved to grasp at your jaw, pressing down on it harshly. You nearly winced at the pressure, preparing yourself for the inevitable. He was definitely going to break your jaw as expected…

You glanced quickly over to the analysts still lined up like ducks to shoot down before Stitch’s operatives. They looked at you rather nervously and with concern. You blinked at them. Sure, you were about to get your jaw broken but you were sure you’ve had worse in the past considering your scars. Besides, it was hard to top MK Ultra...

Suddenly, you felt him press down on the joint and his hands forced your mouth to open even as you desperately tried to fight it. What the hell was he doing-

You blinked. Your eyes glanced down to confirm that yes-

Stitch actually was shoving his fingers into your mouth. 

You struggled to bite down but that insistent pressure at the joint of your jaw kept you from doing so. His fingers forced deeper into your mouth until they reached the back of your throat. The moment they pressed there you felt your throat convulse and your eyes watered. 

However, even as your throat convulsed as you gagged on his fingers, you tried not to dry heave. 

But then underneath the dull taste of his leather gloves, you tasted that familiar metallic taste.

_Blood_. 

There had been blood on your cheek which he had stroked with a gloved hand before brushing your lips with that same one. 

Suddenly, you felt saliva run down your throat alongside his fingers.

And it was at that moment you felt yourself choke. 

_“сдавайся уже._ ” he said impatiently, withdrawing his fingers at last when he noticed you just couldn’t breathe. You only glared up at him with teary eyes blurring your vision with your hand immediately rubbing tenderly at your throat as you struggled to calm both your stomach and your breathing. 

You opened your mouth to say something but then you heard something...beeping in the background. You turned your head to the side, seeing that it originated from one of the large cryptography machines sent from the highest levels of the cryptography department of the CIA.

You briefly glanced at the analysts who were nodding at you. 

You blinked. What were they trying to say-

Suddenly you heard a deafening bang with a ringing- _not static_ -in your ears-

And then everything went _dark_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Jak_the_ATAT for beta-reading this late at night last-minute! Without their feedback, I probably wouldn't have been able to post this chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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